When the Carchemishi raised his weapon, the hilt slipped from his bloody hand. He muttered something Sargon didn’t understand, and fumbled with his left hand for a knife that dangled from his belt.
Garal took another step forward, to deliver the killing blow.
“Wait! Look at his tunic!” Sargon’s voice halted his friend’s thrust. “This one might be useful alive.”
The fine linen garment, stitched with threads that formed a wide hem on the square cut neck piece, looked far too valuable to belong to a common soldier. Now Sargon also noticed the wide leather belt with a thick bronze buckle. Designs had been tooled into the leather. Obviously a man of wealth and power.
Garal grunted. He made a sudden lunge toward the man, who threw up his hands to try and block the killing stroke. Instead, Garal shifted his body and his sword in the same motion, and rammed the pommel of the weapon into the wounded man’s face.
The powerful blow sent the Carchemishi reeling backward into the wall of the tent, which billowed and flapped, threatening to collapse the whole structure. Dazed, the man slumped to the ground, fresh blood dripping from the gash in his forehead. A single glance told Sargon that the fight had gone out of their prisoner.
He turned his attention to the two women. Young girls, really. Neither one looked any older than Tashanella. The screams had stopped, and now they clutched each other, bosoms rising and falling from their fear. They knew what fate awaited them.
“Tie that one up,” Sargon ordered, gesturing toward the unconscious man on the ground, “before he comes to. We don’t want him killing himself.”
Sargon gave the order without thinking, though of course in the hierarchy of the Ur Nammu, he wasn’t supposed to give orders to anyone.
If Garal noticed the breech of command, he ignored it. Glancing around, Garal spied the dangling rope used to fasten the tent flap. Using his sword, he cut it free. Then he dropped to his knees, rolled the semi-conscious man onto his stomach, and bound his hands behind him, tugging hard on the rope to make sure the knot stayed tight.
The tent and its inhabitants intrigued Sargon. Not a mere commander’s quarters, not with furnishings as large and luxurious as these. He realized the prisoner must be one of the Carchemishi leaders. That would make more sense, with the tent located on the fringe of the baggage train.
This tent looked more like a bed chamber, with cushions and rugs scattered about everywhere. The scent of incense hung in the air, still noticeable even over the stink of fresh blood and sweat. It might be a place where a senior commander, after a hard day of pillaging, took his pleasures.
The trembling girls, still sobbing, needed to be questioned. They would hold many answers, and it should be easy enough to get them to talk.
“Garal, these three are important. Can you guard them until Chinua or Subutai can get here? I’ll make sure that the rest of the tents aren’t destroyed until we’ve examined them. They might tell us much about these invaders and their plans.”
The warrior had finished binding their captive. “Go. I’ll watch them.”
Sargon faced the girls once again. “Stay there and don’t move. Otherwise I’ll turn the both of you over to the warriors. You know what that means.”
He spoke in the language of Akkad, hoping the two would understand. Whether they did or not, their heads nodded in unison, and the sobs ceased.
Outside, Sargon started checking the tents and wagons, jogging from one to another.
Four tents clustered together stood nearby, and he searched those first. Each provided sleeping space large enough for three or four men. They held little more than the loot and goods a subcommander might have accumulated, and nothing that Sargon found interesting.
He started on the wagons, a motley collection of every size and shape imaginable. Sargon strode up and down the lines, glancing at each as he passed. When he completed his inspection, he’d counted forty-six wagons, an impressive number.
Most contained sacks of grain and vegetables, weapons, and supplies needed for such a large number of men on campaign. A small group of ten wagons, separated from the others, held the army’s loot — gold, gems, fancy weapons, even richly made clothing, rugs, and sandals.
Finished, Sargon ran back to the commander’s tent. Garal had dragged his prisoner outside, the better to see what was going on. Now the warrior sat on a low stool, drinking something from a water skin. As Sargon dismounted, he caught the smell of wine in the air.
Garal grinned at him. “Have some of this. It’s good.” He offered up the wineskin.
Sargon’s throat was dry, but he wanted water, not wine. “Any water inside?”
“Yes, plenty.” Garal shouted something, and one of the girls appeared at the tent’s opening. “Water.” He pointed to Sargon.
The girl nodded, and disappeared. In a moment, she returned carrying a water skin so heavy she could barely manage it.
Garal laughed. “She already knows two Ur Nammu words — water, and wine. Tonight I’ll teach her a few more.”
Sargon snatched the water skin from her hands and drank until he could hold no more. When he handed it back, it weighed considerably less. Looking down at his hands, he realized they were still covered with blood.
The girl offered it to Garal, but he shook his head. “What’s in the wagons?” He took another mouthful of wine.
“Food and supplies, mostly,” Sargon said. “Ten are filled with gold and loot the Carchemishi have collected. No horses. The wagon drivers must have cut the livery animals free and rode off.”
“That’s probably what happened to this one.” Garal shoved the unconscious man with his foot. “Probably went inside to collect his loot, and someone stole his horse.” He laughed at the idea. “Well, we can use all the food we can get. We lost most of our herds.”
The Ur Nammu had abandoned everything in their flight, including their sheep, goats, and cattle. The supplies in the enemy wagons would sustain the Ur Nammu for a long time, more than long enough to return to their former camp.
The sound of hoof beats made Sargon look up. Riders approached, coming toward them. Garal plugged the wineskin and tossed it back into the tent. He moved to his feet and stood beside his friend. Four riders led the way, and behind them were two separate groups of twenty or so warriors.
“The Alur Meriki.” Garal said the words softly, almost as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes. “That’s a sight I never thought I would live to see. Now we just have to hope that they don’t decide to kill us all.”
“Not likely.” Sargon doubted the Alur Meriki would risk everything just to kill a few hundred Ur Nammu. “Besides, Subutai is with them.”
The two Sarums, Bekka and Subutai, rode side by side. Fashod accompanied Subutai, and another warrior rode beside Bekka.
The leaders halted before the tent. Bekka wore a crude bandage on his left arm, but if it caused him any discomfort, he hid it well. Subutai also had taken a wound, just below the right shoulder. A crude bandage had staunched the blood, but traces had stained the dirty cloth.
“Well, young Sargon of Akkad,” Bekka said, gazing down at the two young men, “it’s good to see you survived. How many men have you challenged to battle today?”
Sargon bowed. “I believe I’ve had more than enough fighting, Clan Leader Bekka.”
“All my warriors will give fervent thanks to the gods for that, then,” Bekka said, a trace of a smile on his face. He slipped his right leg over his horse’s neck and dropped to the ground. “I can use a rest from riding and fighting.”
Sargon handed Bekka the water skin. The Sarum drank deeply, then passed it on to his men.
“The Sarum of the Alur Meriki and his warriors arrived just in time.” Subutai dismounted as well, though he took care with his movements. “Another day, and the Ur Nammu would have been destroyed.” He glanced around. “And what is this place?”